


Big Ideas and a Little Behind

by notlucy



Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Blink and you'll miss her Natasha, Butt Plugs, Cock Slapping, Dom Steve Rogers, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Control, Over the Knee, POV Bucky Barnes, Praise Kink, Riding Crops, Sex Work, Someone is catching feels, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky has no idea what to expect for his second session with Steve. Then he gets the email about the butt plug.





	Big Ideas and a Little Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the 'verse established in _practice my maintenance (as hard as you can)_. If you're just here for the smut, you probably don't need the backstory. This is also meant to fill my Kink Bingo O2 square - BDSM playroom.

Bucky wakes the morning after the phone sex with a hard-on and a guilty conscience.

The former goes away with a piss and a prayer, but the latter proves more difficult. It's tough to keep from feeling anxious as he retrieves his towel from the dryer (the 3 a.m. wake-up having served its purpose) and takes a long, hot shower, using a washcloth to scrub the crusted spunk from his torso and groin with as little touching as possible.

Steve’s on his mind the whole time, a stone fruit feeling in his stomach, guilt creeping up his spine and telling him that he is doing Steve a disservice by being so needy. By being someone who takes without giving anything in return. That might not have meant much when Bucky had been paying for Steve’s time, but now that they’re in this…whatever this is, he feels bad for being selfish.

He’s going to fix things on Friday. Show Steve that he can be both good _and_ useful. Assuage his guilt as best he knows how. For now, though, he’s stuck in North Carolina, six days from seeing Steve again and determined to enjoy his break.

Which, surprisingly, he does. As the weekend wears on, he remains on a high, from breakfast with his family on Saturday to the farewell barbecue on Monday night, during which his father nearly sets the wooden deck ablaze.

On Tuesday, he flies home and makes it to work by noon, saving himself a precious four hours of PTO. Then, on Wednesday, he’s woken before his alarm by a text from Steve.

It's nothing thrilling—a request for his email address so Steve can message him outside of the website's mail application. Bucky replies, and only after hitting send does he wonder if perhaps he should have created some cool, mysterious, sexy fake email account. But, shit, there aren't a lot of guys named Bucky in the world, so if Steve really wanted to fuck with him, he could have already.

An email is waiting when he gets home from work.

 

> _From: sgr91@cmail.com_
> 
> _To: bbarnes@cmail.com_
> 
> _Subject: Friday_
> 
> _Hi Bucky,_
> 
> _Hope the rest of your weekend was relaxing. Wanted to check in on a couple of things for Friday. #1, make sure you clean up before you come—not to spoil the surprise, but planning on using a plug. Wear jeans, whatever you want on top, preferably briefs underneath, but boxers are fine if that's all you've got. Bring soft clothes for after. Text me when you arrive, and I'll come get you._
> 
> _BTW, I’m still relying on the form you filled out, but we can amend it (already amending sexual contact, ofc). Attaching my latest STD results for your benefit, feel free to send yours if you have them, otherwise I’ll use gloves. Totally willing to continue our arrangement regardless of your status, but forewarned is forearmed._
> 
> _If you have questions, you can email me or text me. I’ll see you Friday._
> 
> _\- S_

 

Bucky reads the message four times, gleaning new information with each pass. A close inspection of Steve’s email address reveals a few things. The meaning of S is obvious, while the G and the R? Most likely initials. Then there’s ninety-one—birth year? That would make sense, considering he’s pegged Steve in his mid-to-late-twenties.

The content of the email has plenty of lines to read between, too. ‘Clean up’ is obvious, as is the plug, and Bucky could do a little dance of glee about that. It’s not a _guarantee_ of sex, but like…it could be! Soft clothes for afterward indicates that he’ll be hurting, which is honestly what he’s most excited about,  and the note about amending the form is intriguing.

And then there’s the stuff about the test results. Bucky appreciates Steve’s unself-conscious acknowledging of their reality, and he opens the attachment to find a PDF with black boxes over most personal details. All that’s revealed is Steve’s full first name (with a V, no PH), and his date of birth: July 4th, 1991. Which is hilarious. Who ever _actually_ was born on the fourth of July?

(Statistically, lots of people, but that doesn’t make it less funny.)

The results themselves indicate that Steve is disease free. Bucky takes a moment to dig out the results of his own most recent test, covering the super private details with Post-It notes before snapping a picture and sending it to himself. He then attaches the image to a reply that consists of, "sounds great, see you then!"

After that, he books an appointment at his favorite clinic, because that ‘recent' test had been done six months prior, right after Evan had ended things. Bucky has been on Grindr…a couple times since then. Unfortunately, the clinic can't see him until the next Tuesday so yeah, maybe Steve will just have to use gloves.

When Friday finally rolls around, Bucky sneaks out of work at 4:30, feigning a stomachache. It’s not a total lie, as he _has_ been jittery and anxious all afternoon. He heads home to shower, then spends far longer than he’s willing to admit futzing with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Which, sue him: he’s vain about it. No male pattern baldness in the Barnes family, no sir.

His outfit, on the other hand, takes some work. Sure, Steve had said jeans, and Bucky does own briefs (even if he rarely wears them), but what shirt? The first time around, he’d been aware he would be naked, so he hadn’t really worried about his clothes. Plus, he hadn’t _known_ Steve then. This time, though, Steve was prescriptive about his outfit, leading Bucky to think it matters, or at least is catering to some specific want of Steve’s. He ends up dithering over three different button downs before choosing a navy and white plaid which he French tucks into his not-super-skinny jeans.

Socks, boots, coat, scarf, and he’s ready to roll half an hour before he needs to leave the house. And he’s forgotten to eat, which is a rookie mistake. So he takes off the coat and the scarf, wolfs down some leftover lo mein, then panics about the state of his breath and re-brushes his teeth before bolting out the door.

The subway takes an eternity to arrive (fucking _big_ surprise there) and by the time he gets to the building (dungeon? Kink factory?) he’s a little out of breath and five minutes early, just like he’d promised Steve.

When he tries the door, though, he finds it locked, which is a change from his prior visit. Stepping back, he discovers a camera mounted above the door jam. Seconds later, he hears a buzzing and tries the door again. This time he is allowed entry into the building, where he passes through the entryway and into the tiny waiting room, which has a couple people in it. Two men—one middle-aged with a beer gut and a head of wispy blond hair, the other young, cute and wiry, with thick-rimmed glasses perched on his beaky nose.

Both of them look up when Bucky enters, forcing an awkward nodding-and-grunting greeting. Nobody’s about to acknowledge what they’re there for, though Bucky can feel his face turning red as he eases himself into one of the black vinyl chairs and pulls out his phone to text Steve.

Once that’s done, there’s nothing left to do but avoid eye-contact. After a minute, he hears footsteps and looks up. A petite, redheaded bombshell of a woman enters the waiting area,  wearing a black robe that falls all the way to the floor. As she walks past him, Bucky gets a hint of the fishnets and four-inch heels peeking out from underneath.

The middle-aged man stands and follows her, neither of them saying a word. Bucky would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was curious, but at the same time, it’s probably not his kind of scene. For all his limited experience, he’s becoming a big fan of Steve’s casual approach.

Minutes tick by. Bucky resists the urge to pull out his phone and check that his text went through. It’s fine. Steve knows he’s coming. It’s not like he’s been waiting long, anyway. The only reason time is stretching out endlessly is because of the butterflies in his stomach and the adrenaline in his veins. God, he _wants_ this. He's been craving it all week, and now it's here, and he has no idea what to expect except a butt plug and gloves and—

Footsteps. Bucky and the wiry guy look up.

Steve steps out of the hallway, long-legged and handsome in black athletic pants and a too-tight t-shirt, sporting familiar white sneakers on his feet. Bucky exhales, not bothering to hide the smile that spreads across his face.

“Hi,” he greets, getting to his feet and picking up his bag.

“Hey,” Steve says with a smile of his own, stepping to the side to let Bucky go first. “C’mon.”

Thumbing the nylon strap of his bag, Bucky walks into the hallway, surprised (and pleased) when Steve lays a hand on the small of his back to guide him. The hall has a different energy tonight; same doors, same dimness, but now accompanied by muffled thumps and low laughter and—as he passes one room—high pitched yelps.

Steve stops in front of a different door than before, producing a keycard from his pocket,  unlocking it then allowing Bucky through. This new room is roughly the same size as the other, but instead of the spanking bench, there's a padded table that reminds Bucky of high school. Namely, the sort of table he might have reclined on after a meet or practice, letting the track trainer work out a cramp or assess an injury. The only other furniture of note is a high-backed, armless wooden chair, in front of which rests a black cushion.

Steve nudges Bucky forward before closing the door. “See something you like?”

“Um—” Bucky shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he scoffs, smile spreading. “Gimme your bag. I’m gonna put it in the back. Go ahead and kneel on the pillow.”

“Do um—should I undress first?”

Steve shakes his head, taking the bag when Bucky offers it. “I’m the one worrying about what you should do, right? Just kneel.”

Bucky smiles to himself at the reassurance before crossing to the pillow and sinking to his knees. Up close, the cushion covering is revealed to be pleather, cracked in multiple places from the hundreds of other knees that have used it before him. That thought proves an additional comfort, bolstering him in the knowledge that he’s not the first person to seek something from this room, and he won’t be the last.

Steve hadn’t given any instructions for _how_ to kneel, so he settles for sitting back on his heels, denim pulling taut against his thighs. Folding his hands in his lap, he takes a deep breath and straightens his spine. His back groans in protest, as he has the posture of a weathered old crone thanks to days spent hunching over a keyboard. Annoyed, he drops his head forward, rolling his chin back and forth against his chest in an attempt to loosen things up.

Steve slides into the chair a moment later, positioning himself so his knees are on either side of Bucky’s body. Not touching, but it’s a tight fit—only an inch or two between them.

“Look at me,” Steve says.

Bucky lifts his head and finds Steve smiling.

“Not bad for a first timer. Knees a little further apart, if you can, and I want your palms turned up on your thighs, but good intuition.”

“I’ve seen people kneeling in the club I go to, so…” Bucky demurs as he shifts his body, making the adjustments as best he can while wearing clothes.

“Take the compliment, Bucky,” Steve says, a warning implicit.

“…thank you.”

“Much better.” Steve smiles, dropping both hands to his knees. “So, we got some business to take care of.”

“We do?”

“Yep—the form, like I said in the email. I took a look at it this week, reviewed your answers. Most of the stuff on it you said you’d be willing to try, even if it was new to you. And there were a few hard nos.”

“That…yeah, that sounds right.”

“The first time, I was only looking at the impact stuff,” Steve goes on. “But now that we’re embarking on this business partnership, I dug deeper.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s start with you reminding me about your hard limits.”

“Uh…” he hesitates. “I don’t remember the exact wording but um…bodily fluids that aren’t, you know, semen. And, oh, needles. Knives. Like…blood, in general?”

“And no sexual contact,” Steve reminds him. “We still amending that one?”

“Uh, yup.”

“Thought so.” Steve smiles, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs a couple times. “Here’s the thing—I’m gonna take you at your word on all those ‘willing to try’ responses, and I’m gonna respect the hell out of your limits. What I need from you, though, is honesty. If we try something and you fuckin’ hate it, and never want to do it again? It’s stricken from the record. We’ll add it to that hard no list. You got me?”

“Sure.”

“Good. And listen, it’s bound to happen sooner or later, so don’t feel bad when it does. We got a bunch of unknown variables, and we’re gonna run into some shit you can’t handle.”

“Like the cane.”

“Right,” he says. “I wanted to ask you about that, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And keep in mind there’s no wrong answers here. But there’s a difference between a hard limit and something that you hate. You get me?”

“Not exactly,” he admits.

“Thank you for being honest,” Steve says with a pleased nod. “So, to me, a hard limit is no good. It freaks you the fuck out, or it’s not the fun kind of pain, or it scares you, or whatever. You can’t deal with it, and you shouldn’t have to. Whereas when it’s just something you _hate_ …well, that’s something I want to keep in my arsenal.”

“Uh…huh.”

“Which is why I’m asking about the cane. Is that something you want on your hard limits list—and, again, if it is, I don’t care. That’s your prerogative, and I got other shit I can use. But what I’m asking is: is it a hard no _,_ or is it something you hate and you’ll do your best to avoid, but I could break out if you needed a lesson learned. You understand?”

Bucky does, and he chews on his lip as he thinks it over. “So, my first instinct is to say it’s the second thing? But I’m not sure if that’s because I want to give you what _you_ want, or because I really feel that way.”

“Fuckin’. Genius.” Steve grins, leaning forward and taking Bucky’s face between his hands before planting a big, sloppy kiss on his forehead. “Take some time and think about it, alright? My feelings won’t be hurt either way.”

“I…okay,” Bucky stammers, trying and failing to keep the dopey grin off his face at Steve’s spontaneous show of affection.

"Just know that when we try new things, you're gonna have to tell me where they fall on the hard no versus behavior deterring tool thing. And we'll keep adjusting accordingly, yeah?"

“That’s…yeah,” he smiles. “That’s good.”

Steve nods, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. On anyone else, the gesture might look foreboding, but Steve manages to make it almost casual. "To start, let's try some honesty about the stuff we did the other night on the phone. How were those for corrective measures?"

“Uh. Definitely…correcting. I didn’t love them, but they were, you know, _bearable_.”

“And the other stuff?” Steve raises a brow.

“Like, the uh…edging stuff?”

“Oh, pal, that wasn’t edging. When I edge you, you’ll know it.”

“Whatever it was,” Bucky says, smile widening. “It was uh, good. Green.”

“And you got that towel clean, right?”

“Yup.”

“Have you touched yourself this week?”

“No.” He shakes his head, pleased that he manages to answer without blushing. “Except showering, or whatever.”

Steve unfolds his arms and leans forward, scrutinizing Bucky closely. “And you’re not lying to me about that, are you?”

“No!”

The indignity of the response makes Steve laugh, and he shakes his head. “Christ, the look on your face—”

“Well, I didn’t,” he says. “And it _sucked_.”

Steve grins, lifting a hand to pat Bucky’s cheek. “I’ll bet. Gonna make it up to you tonight, though. If you’re good.”

“I—” Bucky cuts his eyes away. “I will be.”

“What is it?” Steve asks, not missing a thing.

“It’s uh…can I ask you something?” Because he hasn’t forgotten the worries that stemmed from their phone call.

“Sure. I might not answer, though.”

The ease of the response catches Bucky off guard, and he barks out a laugh. “Uh, okay.”

“That holds throughout, by the way. You don’t have to ask me permission for a question, but I don’t have to answer it.”

“Oh. Well, this is just. Um. You know…what we did, on the phone? I was wondering if it uh…I mean, _I_ felt really good, but did you…you know. Enjoy it?”

“Did I enjoy it,” Steve repeats, and it’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Sweetheart, do I strike you as someone who spends a lot of time doing _anything_ I don’t enjoy.”

No, he does not, and realizing that saves Bucky a whole week’s worth of worry. “Ah…nope. So did you—”

"Alright, let's go," Steve says as if Bucky hadn't been in the middle of responding. Question time, it seems, is over for the time being. "Stand up."

Caught mid-sentence, Bucky squeaks out an, “um?” of confusion.

Steve’s hand moves like a flash, grabbing Bucky’s hair and pulling his head to the side none-too-gently. He’s got too much fisted for any real pain to register, but that doesn’t make Bucky yelp any less. “See, now you’re not paying attention,” Steve says like he’s disappointed.

“Sorry! I just—”

“Just what?”

“Just…got in my head.”

“But you’re not supposed to be in your head. I am.” Steve tugs on his hair, tutting under his breath. “When I give you an order, I don’t need you second-guessing. I’d rather you do a shit job over not trying at all. Understood?”

“Yes!”

“Thank you. Let’s do this again—on your feet.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, and the moment Steve releases his hair he shoots up, knees popping. Whatever line existed between conversation and kink has been crossed, and Bucky is fucking _ready_ to hand himself over to Steve’s whims for the second time in as many weeks.

Slippery slope, this submission thing.

“Lay down, right here,” Steve says, patting his lap.

Striving for completion rather than competence proves simple enough as Bucky awkwardly angles himself across Steve’s thighs. He’s worried about putting the full weight of his torso on Steve, so he ends up hovering, toes digging into the floor and fingertips touching the ground on the other side, executing the world’s worst downward facing dog.

“You’re not gonna hurt me, sweetheart,” Steve says, placing his left hand on the small of Bucky’s back, while the right slides under his thighs. “Go on, stretch out. I’ll show you how I want you.”

Bucky acquiesces, though it takes some time for Steve to get him where he needs him—tipped forward so Bucky can rest both palms flat on the floor, while his toes barely skim the ground on the opposite side. As positions go, it's comfortable enough, but vulnerable, not to mention embarrassing, especially when Steve takes the opportunity to drop his right hand onto Bucky's denim covered ass.

“I think,” he says, and Bucky can feel the vibrations of his voice. That low, sexy rumble, which _fu-uuuuck_ , his dick is already fattening up. “No matter what else I got planned,” Steve continues. “I’m gonna put you over my knee and warm you up every time I play with you. That sound good?”

“Uh-huh.” Because what else is he going to say?

“You won’t always have this many clothes on. Sometimes, I’m gonna want you naked right off the bat. Other days, I’ll undress you myself. Today—” he lifts his hand, and when it falls, the sound of his palm hitting taut clothing ricochets around the room. Bucky moans, not because it hurts but because of the _friction_ generated as his body rocks forward with the blow.

"Today's gonna be tough for you," Steve says, rubbing the spot. "So I'm starting off slowly because I want you to remember that even when you're hurting, I'm doing it because you need this—right?"

His hand rises and falls again, and Bucky nods, closing his eyes. “Yes. That um…thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s the last thing Steve says before beginning a rhythmic spanking, the sound of it echoing in the small room, distinctly different from flesh on flesh. Bucky likes it, this new sensation—less sharp than a bare-assed spank, with a slower spreading burn. He keeps his eyes closed, and when Steve intensifies the blows, he focuses on controlling his breathing.

“Alright,” Steve says after a couple of minutes, patting Bucky’s ass affectionately. “Stand up, jeans down to your…mmm, knees is fine.”

There is a small voice within Bucky that aches to question the order. To check in and make sure that he's understanding the instruction, lest he does something wrong. The more intelligent voice in his head tells the first voice to shut the fuck up, however, as he stands and reaches for his fly.

“Such a good boy,” Steve praises, and Bucky could sing, even as he wriggles his jeans down his thighs, acutely aware of his half-mast hard-on straining against the front of his briefs.

Steve makes no effort to conceal his interest in the matter at hand as Bucky straightens up. “Aw,” he says. “Lookit that. I bet a stiff breeze could do it for you, huh, pal?”

Bucky shrugs, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I guess.”

Steve raises his hand. Brings it tantalizingly close before fucking _giggling_ and patting his lap instead. “Down, boy.”

"Woof, woof," Bucky grumbles as he leans over because Steve never said he couldn't make bad jokes. Steve laughs, but it doesn't buy Bucky a reprieve—no sooner is he settled than the spanking resumes, blows much less muted through the briefs. He's squirming after less than a minute, which doesn't do much to help the dick situation (the dicktuation?), trapped as it is between his body and Steve's thigh, jolted with not _quite_ enough friction every time Steve lays down a slap. There’s only so much a man can take, and eventually Bucky starts emitting strange, gasping grunts as he rocks his pelvis against Steve’s leg.

“Oh, hey,” Steve teases, not bothering to stop. “What’s the matter, Buck? You need something?”

“Nnn!” Bucky protests, toes fighting for purchase on the floor and finding none, because Steve has set this up _perfectly (_ and by _perfectly_ he means _sadistically)_. The angle is wrong, and Bucky can't work up the momentum he needs, which makes it all the more frustrating when Steve lays a series of ten atrociously hard smacks against his bare legs.

“I guess you had a rough week,” Steve says in that _infuriatingly_ chipper tone.

“Puh- _lease_!”

“Please what?”

“Just wanna…” he groans. Steve pops him hard, and he nearly bites his tongue. “ _Fuck_. I can’t—it’s not _enough_!”

“Aw, I know, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs. “But it is what it is, so…”

There’s no end to the sentence. Just more spanks. Endless, stinging little slaps against the thin white cotton of his underwear, until Bucky’s foot comes off the floor and Steve wallops the inside of his right thigh so hard he nearly screams.

“You won’t like what happens if you kick me,” Steve warns. Bucky lowers his foot. The spanking resumes.

The next time Steve stops, it’s to issue another command. “Stand up. Briefs down to your knees, then put your hands behind your back.”

Which is how Bucky finds himself with his dick bobbing in the air, both sets of cheeks flaming as Steve looks him over like he’s window shopping at a goddamn department store. This is somehow more humiliating than being spread wide over a spanking bench, or nearly being caught masturbating by his mother. He’s not sure why, save for the fact that Steve has a killer poker face, and is giving _nothing_ away.

“You ever used a cock ring before?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

“Wh-uh, no,” he says. “Are you uh…gonna put one on me?”

“Eventually. Not today.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Back over, please,” he says, patting his lap.

A reasonable request, Bucky’s _so_ sure. He bends over anyway, and once he’s settled, Steve sticks one hand between his thighs to force his legs apart, which seems about right.

“Good boy,” he says, and now Bucky can’t remember why he was embarrassed. “We’re almost done here, and then we can get to the fun stuff, yeah?”

Bucky manages a vague assent before the spanking starts afresh, and it’s a testament to Steve’s talents that Bucky isn’t even thinking about his dick anymore. Sure, it’s there, it’s hard, it’s getting maybe twenty percent of what it needs, friction-wise, but it’s a long way from his most pressing concern. No, that’s reserved for the kerosene and matches Steve must be sporting in the metaphorical palm of his hand because Bucky’s ass is on _fire_.

Steve finishes him off with four sharp slaps to each cheek before unceremoniously pushing him to the floor, where he lands in a tangled heap. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s unexpected, and he’s still recovering when Steve starts issuing instructions.

“Kneel up on the cushion, Bucky, don’t keep me waiting.”

Bucky, still about ten seconds behind, is sluggish as he pushes himself first to his hands and knees, then just the latter, before shuffling his way onto the cushion. There’s no dignity to it—his pants and his briefs are twisted around his calves, and as he settles on the pleather he feels a trickle of sweat begin its long, slow slide from his hairline to his neck, destined to wind up pooled in the small of his back. Still: he has retained some learning, and he spreads his knees as wide as he can, before placing his hands on his thighs. Palms up.

“You’re such a quick study,” Steve says. Bucky’s chest swells, and he grins. “Put your hands behind your head for me—lace your fingertips together, that’s perfect. Now straighten your spine, best as you can.”

Bucky’s back twinges, and he gives a little grimace, but the slight discomfort is mitigated by Steve’s smile.

“I think you’ve earned a reward, don’t you, pal?”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Steve agrees. “Good answer. Now—” his eyes trail from Bucky’s face to his cock, and he hums before sliding one sneakered foot between Bucky’s spread thighs, then lifts it, painfully slowly, to run the toe box along the underside of Bucky’s shaft.

Bucky exhales, fingers flexing against his skull as every muscle in his abdomen tightens at the touch.

“You didn’t even flinch,” Steve marvels. “What if I’d kicked you?”

“Then I guess I woulda gotten kicked.”

“Aw, aren’t you trusting?” Steve says, then points his toe and flicks it so it catches just below the head of Bucky’s cock. It’s not a proper kick—not very sore—but it comes as a shock. Bucky flinches that time, which only makes Steve laugh and repeat the action. After that, when Bucky takes a deep breath and braces himself for a third strike, Steve flexes his ankle instead, pinning Bucky’s cock against his belly with the sole of his shoe.

“I could, though,” Steve says, continuing his thought. “Kick your cock all night, and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Y—” he frowns. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Steve seems pleased with the answer, rubbing his shoe against the skin of Bucky’s prick, which is _weird_ , but at this point, anything is better than nothing.

“Just…if I liked it, I’d let you. And if I didn’t, I’d say so.”

“Such a good answer,” Steve says, putting his foot back on the floor. “Stand up and get undressed—oh, and fold your clothes. Don’t think I missed the way you chucked ‘em in the box last time.”

Bucky’s already halfway up by the time Steve finishes the mild rebuke, tripping over his trousers as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Steve raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment further, and as Bucky struggles with the rest of his clothing, he goes to a small black bag in the corner where he takes a few things out, placing them on a rolling metal cart.

There is a riding crop—standard issue, black leather, maybe a little shorter than the crop that Bucky’s been imagining, which means Steve will have to stand close when he uses it. (Some fucking tragedy; they should give him a medal.) There’s also a box of latex gloves next to the biggest bottle of lube Bucky’s ever seen, sporting a pump rather than a flip-top. But, hey, Steve’s a professional, so he probably buys lube in bulk. Costco lube. Pick up an industrial-sized tub alongside your toilet paper and twenty-pack of athletic socks.

Beyond that? Well, there’s the butt plug.

It’s not the _biggest_ plug Bucky’s ever seen (or used, for that matter), but still: it’s a promise fulfilled. Steve’s idle chatter during their phone conversation coming to fruition in glorious reality. Also, it’s made of wood, which blows Bucky’s mind in an entirely different way. Lacquered (was that the right word?) and pretty, even if he’s immediately wary of splinters and wondering about safety. Making haste, Bucky folds his clothes and places them on the chair before looking to Steve for further instruction.

“C’mon over,” Steve says, having rolled the cart to the padded table. Never one to need an engraved invitation, Bucky moves to stand on the opposite side of the table from Steve.

“Any issues with what’s here?” Steve asks. “Keeping in mind that the lube is non-negotiable.”

“Uh.” Bucky bites his lip before pointing to the plug. “It’s wooden.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Is that…safe?”

Steve cocks an eyebrow. “You think I’m gonna use something on you that _isn’t_?”

“Uh. I do not, no.”

“Good answer.”

“But—“ he hesitates.

“If you say you’re worried about splinters,” Steve says, keeping his tone even. “I’m gonna call a red and walk out that door.”

Bucky closes his mouth.

"Fuckin' idiot rumor. You get splinters when you pick up a salad bowl or touch a coffee table? Jesus jizzed on a cracker, the shit people come up with."

Bucky doesn’t bother to hide his smile at Steve’s impassioned defense. “Fair enough. Question redacted, but I have another one.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you make it?”

“Of course I made it,” Steve says. “Pick it up—feel it over.”

Bucky picks up the plug, turning the toy around in his hands. It’s heavy—warm in a way most other materials aren’t. Steve was right: it’s smooth under his fingers, every imperfection sanded out. The wood grain is striking, light and dark mingling in endless whorls and organic patterns. “Wow.”

“Everything I use, I’m obsessive about,” Steve says. “Medical grade polymer finish, totally safe for internal use. Plus, I do my research about the best way to clean my toys. You with me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, smiling as he sets the plug back on the table. “You’re um…” he grins, trying not to laugh.

“What?”

“You’re just kind of a nerd?” He doesn’t think Steve will take offense, but he’s not sure. After all, he and Steve are still getting to know one another.

To his great relief, Steve laughs along with him, managing a sheepish shrug. “Guess there are worse things to be a nerd about.”

“That’s true.”

“You want me to use a condom, by the way? I’ve only ever used this on myself, but—”

“Nnn—” Bucky considers. “No. I mean. I saw your test.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you won’t get offended that I’m using gloves for some stuff tonight. Your results were about six months old, so—”

“Yeah, no, that’s smart,” Bucky says, licking his lips. “I mean, I’ve been dating.”

“It’s no problem, we’ll manage.”

“Right.” Bucky nods. “I actually made an appointment for a new test next week, so—”

“Perfect.” Steve smiles before shifting gears again. “Go ahead and hop up on the table for me—hands and knees.”

“Uh…sure.” The whiplash from casual conversation to command catches Bucky off-guard, though he can’t quite say _why_. He just doesn’t like the way Steve said it, is all. Like it’s so fucking easy for Bucky to crawl up there by himself.

Maybe he hesitates for too long, or maybe Steve’s just really good at his job, because within a couple seconds, he’s moved around the end of the table to stand at Bucky’s side, touching his elbow first, then sliding that hand up to rub the back of his neck.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. “What’s up?”

“I just. It’s um. It…” He doesn’t know; can’t quite say, and he swallows a couple times.

“That’s alright.” Steve’s other hand comes to rest atop Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze. “You don’t have to tell me. You want some help?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Such a good boy, asking for what you need,” Steve says, his mouth wonderfully close to Bucky’s ear, the hand on Bucky’s neck stroking down his spine in one long, fluid movement. “You’re so good for me, Bucky. I know tonight’s a little different than before, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I forget that you’re new to this,” he continues, thumb rubbing the smallest of circles on the inside of Bucky’s wrist. “Because you’re such a smart boy. So I’m gonna be better about checking in, and taking things slow.”

Bucky exhales, and Steve takes the opportunity to step closer, the long line of his warm body brushing against Bucky’s side.

“First thing’s first, all I need you to do is get on the table. I’m right here with you, okay?”

Weirdly, knowing that helps calm the flare of panic in Bucky’s brain; reassures him that this isn’t so different from the spanking bench. When he does move, it’s with ease, clambering onto the table with only slight assistance from Steve, who never stops touching him.

“Beautiful,” Steve says once he’s settled, one hand stroking up and down his locked right arm. “I’m gonna be keeping you like this for a while, so I need you to pick whether you’d rather use your hands, or go down to your elbows.”

Talk about damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. Being on his elbows will be more exposing, but he can already imagine the ache in his wrists if he's forced to hold himself up for an extended period. Plus, Steve's had a positive reaction to Bucky's more humiliating positioning before, so what the hell—he lowers himself to his elbows and drops his forehead to the table.

“Thank you,” Steve says, moving the hand on Bucky’s arm to the space between his shoulder blades, while his left hand slides down his back and over the swell of his reddened ass. It doesn’t stop there, though, and a second later Bucky feels a gentle pressure on the inside of his right thigh. “Open up, much as you can, sweetheart. Table’s wider than you think. Perfect, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbles in response, rolling his shoulders and taking a breath.

“Oh, you’re _very_ welcome,” Steve says. “I’m gonna stop touching you for a second to get the plug ready, but I know you can be good and wait patiently, right?”

“Right.”

Steve hadn’t said he couldn’t watch, so Bucky lifts his head, craning to catch a glimpse, though it’s hard to see much from that angle. He hears gloves being snapped into place, which sends the strangest shiver up his spine. There’s a squelching noise—lube, presumably—and then Steve’s now-gloved right hand returns to press against the small of his back.

“I meant to ask earlier, have you used a plug before?”

“Yeh—” Bucky licks his lips. “Yes. I dated a guy who was uh, you know. Into them.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve smiles, and Bucky feels the unmistakable press of something at his entrance, which makes him jump. “Relax, that’s just my finger. Promised I’d go slow.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t need to apologize.” Steve begins making small circles, teasing Bucky’s rim. “So, this butt plug boyfriend—that’s pushing the bounds of vanilla.”

“I guess,” Bucky shrugs, exhaling as Steve’s finger breaches him for the first time, the lube serving its purpose. “He um. He’s the one…he’d spank me once or twice, during sex.”

“Was he the one who called you a bad boy?”

The fact that Steve remembers that detail makes Bucky smile, and he nods. “Yeah.”

“What a dumbass.” Steve grins, crooking his finger. “Anyone with eyes can see you’re the _best_ boy.”

“Best—” Bucky agrees with a groan, pushing back.

“Greedy boy, too, huh?”

“Uhhh…” What’s he supposed to say to that, with a finger in his ass and lube trickling down his crack? “Should I not be?”

“Not necessarily. I was gonna finger you a little more, but…seems like you’re eager to get on with it.”

“Oh. Well—”

Steve's finger slips from him, and Bucky fights the urge to pout. It's a gentle lesson, but a lesson all the same—take what you're given. Don't push.

“Deep breath,” Steve says a moment later, and _fuck_ , yeah, there’s the plug. Bucky sucks air into his lungs and grunts at the pressure. It stings, sure, but that’s never bothered him much. (And okay, so he’s coming around to the notion that perhaps he is _kind of_ a masochist.)

Steve massages the space above Bucky's sacrum with one hand, twisting the plug and working it steadily inside of him with the other. He's not going too fast, but neither is he taking his time—a man on a mission. Bucky's fine with that; he knows this feeling well—the fullness, the stretch—but with Steve, in this place, and under these circumstances? It's better.

“Keep breathing, Bucky,” Steve cautions when the stretch begins turning into a burn. “You’re doing so well—just relax and let it in.”

“Can you—” he looks over his shoulder. “More lube, please?”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve meets his eyes and smiles before pumping another handful, which Bucky feels him spreading around his hole. “How’s that?”

“Better,” he says, though he still finds himself short of breath upon encountering the widest part of the plug. Steve is nothing if not efficient, working the wood in and out carefully, a bit deeper with every push.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Bucky hisses.

“Too much?”

“No.” He drops his head, flexing the ring of muscle. “S’good.”

“Alright,” Steve says, pressing on. As he does, he begins to talk more, which helps, oddly enough. “I got bigger plugs than this, you know. Ones that’d split you in two, just about—”

A shudder rolls through Bucky, and the plug slips another few centimeters.

“Ohhhhh, he _likes_ that idea, huh?” Steve teases. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Someone keeping you stretched open and ready, so all they’d have to do is pull out the plug and slip right in—”

“Someone,” Bucky pants, groaning, sweat prickling on his forehead.

“Almost there, Bucky. You got this. Fuck, you look sweet, taking it for me. It’s gonna feel so good when it’s in, I promise. Gonna rub right up against your prostate every time you twitch—”

“Yeah,” Bucky gasps, biting the inside of his wrist. “Please!”

“—and you’re gonna be twitching _so_ much. I’m gonna make you cry again, you know that? Because you’re so pretty when you—”

The plug slips into place and Bucky groans, hole closing around the handle. He shifts his weight and delights in the feel of it, the _weight_ of it, the tip of the plug perfectly positioned to brush against his prostate. Designed to tease him if he so much as flinches.

“How’s that’s working out for you?” Steve laughs.

“Guh,” Bucky replies, which he thinks is pretty goddamn verbose, under the circumstances.

“How’s that now?” Steve says, fingers grabbing the handle of the plug and wiggling it, tugging back against Bucky’s rim. That draws a squeak out of him, fingernails digging into the padding of the table. “Chrissakes, you’re responsive…” Steve clucks, twisting the handle in what Bucky can only assume is a full three-sixty. As he has no answer for that bit of accuracy, he chooses to grind back against Steve’s hand instead.

“Aw,” Steve says, patting him on the ass before stepping away, where Bucky hears the gloves being pulled off. “Cute.”

“Thanks?”

“Ready for this?” he asks a moment later, placing the crop in Bucky’s line of sight.

“Uh. Hello.”

“Yeah, good, introduce yourself. You two are gonna be well-acquainted real soon.”

Bucky turns his head to look up at Steve, who’s grinning from ear to ear. “That’s…yay?”

“Sure,” Steve says, his free hand taking Bucky by the hair again, holding him at a not-so-comfortable angle. “Hey, remember last time, how you kept showing off your smarts?”

How could he possibly forget? “Yes.”

“I gotta figure, a guy like you who likes to learn? Shit, I ought to be generous. Expand your knowledge base. Give you a little anatomy lesson.”

Bucky prick twitches as a happy thrum courses through him. “Awesome.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Steve agrees. “That’s why I wanted the crop—so you can learn every single place on your body that’s safe for me to smack you.”

So much for _certain_ parts of his anatomy getting immediate attention. Still: it’s a solid plan, and Bucky smiles. “Really?”

“Yup,” Steve says, booping him gently on the nose with the crop. “Someone like you—someone who’s been online, done all the _reading_ —that someone thinks he knows everything there is to know about getting hit. But reading about it and living through it, well…” Steve trails off, continuing to hold Bucky’s head steady before thwacking the meat of his shoulder blade. It stings, but mostly it’s nice, and Bucky hums at the new sensation.

Steve’s smile widens, and he gives Bucky’s hair a tug before releasing him, then steps to the right side of the table. “Most of your upper back is prime real estate—lotta muscle here that can take a lot of pain.” He lets the crop fall again. “However, that doesn’t mean I’m not careful. Can’t hit here—” The tip of the crop traces a light touch down Bucky’s spine.

“Can’t hit there,” Bucky echoes.

“The shoulder blades, though?” Steve tuts, which is all the warning Bucky gets before Steve shows him how much abuse said shoulder blades can take—lightning bolts of discomfort that have him making little yowling protests within a minute.

“Aw, relax,” Steve says eventually, dropping the crop to the table and putting both hands on Bucky’s shoulders, which have hunched around his temples. “C’mon, Bucky, loosen up. It’s worse when you get tense.”

“I am not sure. That I can help it,” Bucky says through gritted teeth.

“Then I guess,” Steve mimics. “We’ll have to work on it.” He says it fondly—the way he has before when encountering some obstacle of Bucky’s personality. Carefully, he begins to massage, easing Bucky back into compliance. “Christ, it’s like a bag of rocks back here. You a doctor or something?”

“Nnn-oh?”

“Lawyer?”

“No.”

“Huh. Gotta be some high-stress job—you got knots like crazy. Ever let anyone work on you?”

“What, like a getting a massage? No.”

“I’m gonna recommend someone.”

“If you want?” Steve is weird.

Steve rubs a tender spot for a second or two before responding. “I do and I will,” he says, then slides his hands from Bucky’s upper back to his lower. “Moving on. I’m never gonna hit you hard here. I’d maybe use a light flogger, but that’s it. And _definitely_ no punching. You know why?”

The very idea of getting punched by Steve lights something primal in Bucky’s brain, and he shivers. “Is it…kidneys?”

“A-plus, Bucky. Honor roll, swear to Christ,” Steve crows. “Yeah. Kidneys, your tailbone, and a whole lot of squishy stuff.”

Bucky smiles and drops his forehead back to the table. “Maybe _you’re_ the doctor.”

“Doctor Feelgood, at your service,” Steve says, then laughs at his own joke before giving Bucky a slap on the ass that jolts the plug against his prostate. “Like that. Feels good, huh?”

“Yes!”

"Well, that's med school and residency all in one." Steve reaches for the crop, touching the leather to the top of Bucky's crack. "Now right here? This is too bony to hit, but—" He slides it a few inches lower until the leather is resting against the handle of the plug. "If _this_ wasn’t here—”

Bucky shivers. He gets the idea.

"I'll save that for another night. For now, I got a pretty good canvas—all the way from here…" Two quick hits, one on each cheek, then he repeats the action three-quarters of the way down Bucky's thighs. "To here."

“Yup!” Bucky agrees.

“But the fun thing about _this_ particular area is…”

Steve trails off as the crop begins swatting back and forth between Bucky’s spread thighs, leaving a line of fire up the tender insides. Bucky howls, instinctively starting to close his legs, only to be met with the novel (but unmistakable) sensation of the crop tapping lightly against his balls.

“Oh-oh-oh,” Steve warns. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, pal.”

Bucky, an intelligent person, spreads his legs as wide as he can.

Steve resumes the assault without another word.

It hurts like hell—the burn on his inner thighs is much worse than any hit to the backs. Plus, there’s the fear; Steve is good at toeing the line of terror, working methodically to swing the crop ever closer to Bucky’s balls before dropping it back down. By the fourth iteration of the technique, Bucky’s shivering, sweat beading on his forehead as he flexes his toes and grits his teeth, tiny “ah, ah, ah!” noises escaping.

Steve pauses, which is worrying for its own reasons, though Bucky barely has time to wonder what he’s up to before the crop whips hard against the handle of the plug.

“Nuh-ohhhhh,” Bucky complains as the sensation ripples through him.

“No?” Steve echoes. “You mean that, or are we good?”

Fuck. Words. He needs a word. Struggles for a minute before stammering a quick, “green!”

“Thought so.” The flat end of the crop is then pressed lightly into the back of Bucky’s knee, which Steve has no way of knowing is Bucky’s goddamn Kryptonite, but: it is Bucky’s goddamn Kryptonite. He has always been ticklish, and that particular location is one of the most sensitive on his body. His reaction is instantaneous, a giggled snort falling from his lips while his leg twitches and he jerks his knee forward.

Talk about exposing one’s proverbial soft underbelly.

“Well, hey—” Steve says. “You’re ticklish?”

Bucky considers lying, but what’s the fucking point? “Yeah,” he admits, bracing himself for a barrage of torture.

What he gets instead is Steve pulling the crop away and tapping the back of his thigh. “Leg where it was, please.”

“Sorry,” he says, licking his lips, disconcerted by Steve’s seeming lack of interest.

“No problem,” Steve says. “Hey! So, you know what really hurts?”

“Um. No?”

“This.” Steve lays a sharp slap to the thickest part of Bucky’s calf and yes, it fucking _does_ hurt, muscle spasming around the stroke.

“Ow!”

“Now, there’s not a lot to work with here—gotta avoid the ankle.” Steve smacks him again.

“Yeah, no shit!” Bucky yelps, finding his voice. “Ugh. That’s…weird.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. The muscle gets kinda crampy, kinda twitchy?”

“Twitchy,” Steve echoes. “Again with you being cute.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. And you should drink more water—helps with the cramps. Hey, gimme your foot.”

Bucky immediately curls his toes. “Oh—”

Steve pops him on the calf for the third time. "You know better than to second guess, genius. Gimme your foot."

Against his better judgment, Bucky does, straightening his right leg so Steve can take hold of his ankle. It's not going to be a position he can hold for ages, but it's okay for now.

“I’m guessing you know what bastinado is?” Steve asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hurts like _hell_. Like stepping on a bunch of Legos, but worse.”

“Fun.”

“That’s…actually, you know what? That’s a damn good idea. Maybe I’ll buy one of those big assorted tubs. Dump it out on the floor and let you crawl on it.”

“Sadist,” Bucky deadpans.

"Spade's a spade, sweetheart," Steve chirps. "Anyway, about this foot I got…"

Naturally, that’s when Steve chooses to employ his newfound knowledge of ticklishness, fingertips dancing across Bucky’s sole.

Bucky shrieks. There’s no other word for the undignified, desperate noise that finds its way out of his throat, foot jerking in Steve’s grip as he fights against the torment.

“Oh man, Bucky.” Steve sounds delighted, not giving an inch. “You are _so_ ticklish! This is fantastic—”

“I’m not!”

“It’s funny that you’re lying when I have all the evidence I need.”

This is worse than spanking, Bucky decides as Steve continues to tickle him. Worse than a week without orgasm. At least when he's getting hit, there's somewhere to focus, zeroing in on the source of the pain and the discomfort. Tickling, though, is never-ending and merciless, impossible to predict while leaving him giggling so hard he's nearly crying and is legitimately worried he might fall off the table in his desperation.

“Please, please!” he gasps.

“Please what?”

“Please stop!”

“Oh, I dunno, pal—this is a lot of fun for me. I’m gonna need you to offer me something pretty good in return.”

Bucky’s mouth opens before his brain has time to weigh in. “Anything!”

Steve stops. “Anything?”

“Yes?”

“So if I want to follow through on that threat to smack you in the balls?”

Bucky swallows, wondering what it says about him that he’s legitimately a little (a lot) turned on by that suggestion. “That uh…falls within the realm of anything, yes.”

“Fuckin’ masochists,” Steve says, clucking his tongue and releasing Bucky’s foot. “Alright, roll over. Same position we used at your ma’s house, except put your hands behind your head.”

Bucky’s penis protests mightily as he does what he’s told, because it has a fundamental aversion to the whole getting-hit-in-the-balls scenario he’s just signed it up for. This aversion, however, is forgotten the moment his ass makes contact with the table, jostling the plug for a moment before he bends his knees and settles into place.

Steve sizes him up, eyes dragging from his feet, past his prick, up his torso and finally resting on his face, where he catches Bucky’s eye and smiles. “Hey, handsome.”

“Hi,” Bucky replies, because he is polite and this has all become disconcertingly normal.

“How you doing?”

“Um. Good. Just. You know. A little nervous?”

“About what?”

Bucky squints. “Getting…hit in the nuts?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Steve says, waving it off. “We’re not doing that yet.”

“We’re not?”

“Nah. We gotta finish our lesson first.”

“Oh.”

“Yup—” he pulls the crop out from where he’d had it stuck under one arm, tapping it against the top of Bucky’s left foot. “Here? Bad for hitting. Too many crunchy little bones.”

“Ssh-sure,” Bucky agrees, still not entirely sure that Steve’s won’t surprise him with the ball slap anyway.

“Front of the legs,” Steve continues, “also not great for impact play. Anything with a bone near the surface, really.” He places a hand on Bucky’s ankle and runs it up his shin, where it comes to rest atop his knee.

“Makes sense.”

“The front of the _thighs_ , though—” Steve grins. “Actually, I changed my mind. Lay your legs flat for a minute.”

Bucky’s prostate sings Steve’s praises as he straightens out and the plug shifts, only to be betrayed when Steve lays ten solid thwaps to each leg. It’s not as bad as getting hit on the inner thigh, but it still hurts, and he’s whining before Steve’s halfway through.

"You're ridiculous," Steve informs him with no small amount of affection, dropping a heavy hand to Bucky's thigh, where he begins massaging an especially sore spot. Bucky's dick, which has come to rest against his stomach, gives a happy little twitch at the touch. "I like you like this, though. All laid out for me—" Steve runs his hand from Bucky's thigh to his belly, deliberately skirting his prick. Bucky sucks in, more from fear of being tickled than any underlying body issues; he's not sporting a six-pack or anything, but he's fine.

Steve, perhaps picking up on the anxiety, drops the crop and starts to tickle with both hands. Bucky hollers in dismay, because that is _too_ much tickling, and his hands fly out to grab Steve’s wrists.  The movement, borne entirely out of instinct, is not a smart choice, and the moment Bucky realizes what he’s done, he flinches and drops his hold like a hot potato.

Steve, meanwhile, has stopped tickling. He removes his hands from Bucky’s body entirely, folding his arms across his chest and looking at Bucky with an eyebrow raised. “Is that a red, sweetheart?”

Bucky appreciates being given the benefit of the doubt. He shakes his head anyway. “No. Just…reacted.”

Steve clucks his tongue and nods. “So, that’s not _great_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. And you’re still learning, so I don’t want you to think I’m mad. But—” he cocks his head to the side. “We still need to make sure it doesn’t happen again, right?”

“…right.”

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do: little bit of punishment, then I’m gonna tie your hands so you can’t fuck up. Good?”

A tremor of fear rolls through Bucky at the word ‘punishment,’ but shit, it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. Besides, he’s pretty sure nothing Steve can dole out is worse than getting tickled, and the longer he delays _that_ happening again, the better. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Sweet boy,” Steve smiles. “Hang on a second, let me see if I have what I want in my bag.”

He crosses to the bag and opens it up, rummaging around for a second before making an "aha!" noise and standing. In his hand, he holds a slim, black wand. Which is maybe eight inches long, including its silver handle.

“What uh…” Bucky swallows. “What’s that?”

“Punishment first, questions after. Scootch to the side and put your left hand flat on the table, palm up.”

“Um, sure,” Bucky agrees, doing as he’s told.

“I’m gonna give you two strokes,” Steve says. “I really want you to remember it, alright?”

Bucky nods, but honestly? He can’t imagine two of anything is going to be that bad—the little wand might be stingy, but it can’t hurt worse than the school paddle or the crop on his inner thighs.

He is wrong. This lesson is learned a few seconds later when Steve holds the rod against Bucky's palm, then uses his opposite hand to pull back the flexible tip. When that tip is released, and the wand strikes the palm of Bucky's hand, he is sure that Steve has just used a mini-guillotine to cut off his goddamn fingers.

“Oh _fuck_!” Closing his fist, Bucky howls, cradling his hand to his chest and rolling back and forth. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “That’s why they call it an evil stick.”

Bucky groans. He hates everything. “That is _bullshit_.”

“I didn’t name it,” Steve says dryly.

“What the fuck _is_ it?”

“Carbon fiber tubing.”

“It _hurts!”_

“Well, yeah. This is a punishment.”

“God damn it—”

"If that's a red for you, I'll put it away. Why don't you take a second? Figure it out."

“It’s—“ Bucky frowns. His hand is on fire, the throb of pain from that tiny, vicious wand setting every nerve in his body singing in sympathy. But, as a corrective measure? Jesus fuck, it works. He’s _really_ wishing he hadn’t moved his hands, which is probably what Steve was talking about earlier, with the whole hate-versus-limit thing. So, after a moment’s recovery, Bucky grits his teeth and opens his palm, placing his hand back on the table. “Not a red.”

"Such a good, good boy," Steve says, which almost makes the second strike worth it. Bucky screeches as it crisscrosses the first, tears brimming in his eyes as he yanks his hand away.

Steve waits, and it’s only when Bucky shifts his weight and places his right hand palm up that he raises a brow. “Oh, no. I said two, you’re done.”

“But—”

“Did you think I meant two on each side?”

“Kinda.”

“Nah,” Steve says. “This is worse. Hang on, I’ll go and get some cuffs.”

Bucky doesn’t really get what Steve means at first. But when Steve goes back to the bag and starts poking around, Bucky grows more and more unsettled by the fact that one hand is throbbing and raw, consuming his every thought, while the other remains unblemished. There’s been a symmetry to Steve’s strikes so far, and because of that, having only one side aching is unfulfilling. Which, he realizes, is another component of the punishment. Steve is right: this _is_ worse.

No wonder people pay him for this.

When Steve returns, it’s with a pair of brown leather cuffs, which he buckles around Bucky’s wrists before taking a minute to rub his still stinging palm. “Such a brave boy,” he says. “That’s why I’m gonna be so nice—strap you down and make this easier on you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a muted sniffle.

Swallowing hard, Bucky presses his lips tightly together while Steve secures his arms above his head. It’s not unlike the spanking bench, restraints cleverly built into the design of the table.

“Tug on those,” Steve instructs. Bucky finds that the hold is perfect, giving him enough slack to wriggle, but not enough to sit up or squirm away.

“S’good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, pretty eyes,” Steve says, crouching down to pick up the crop. “It’s okay if you want to cry—you know I don’t mind.”

“M’not—” he blows out a breath. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s see if we can’t fix that.” Steve runs the leather of the crop down the underside of Bucky’s left arm. Bucky knows in an instant what he’s seeing—a long, silvery scar that’s marked him for twenty years.

“What happened?” Steve asked.

“Car accident.”

“Ah.” Steve taps the muscle and nods. “Safe to hit there?”

“Yu-haaah!” Bucky yelps;  Steve doesn’t need much by way of an okay as he lays a half-dozen thwacks against the sensitive skin covering Bucky’s tricep. “Shiiiiit!”

“Yep, that sucks,” Steve agrees. “Plus—” He trails the crop toward Bucky’s armpit and presses it lightly into the thatch of dark brown hair, making Bucky twitch. “Jesus, you are _jumpy_.”

Bucky shrugs, jutting his chin out and setting his jaw. Steve notices, lifting the crop and placing it against Bucky’s lips, so close to his nostrils that he can smell his own deodorant on the leather. That’s weird—super weird—but like most of the shit Steve does, he’s into it.

“So you don’t like tickling?” Steve asks.

“Not my favorite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Although—” Steve moves again, the crop sliding down and over Bucky’s chin. His neck. His sternum. “I _love_ tickling pretty boys who can’t do a goddamn thing about it, so you might be out of luck.”

Bucky bites his lip and sucks in a deep breath as Steve circles his right nipple with the crop. “Whatever you want,” he whispers.

“That’s right. And what I want is to take care of you. Because I know—” He cracks the leather against Bucky’s nipple, which hurts like hell and Bucky immediately wants _more_.

“What.” Another.

“You.” Another.

“Need.” A fourth, and then nothing.

The tears Bucky’s been trying to keep under control spill over from sheer frustration, running down his temples and into his hair. None of this is fair—his dick is rock hard, his body sore and shaking, and this fucking sadist seems intent on torturing him until he screams. Maybe he’ll die here on this table; Steve would probably feel sorry for him then.

Steve smiles. Watches him squirm. Lays the crop on Bucky's quivering stomach before bending down, mouth inches from his left nipple. Bucky trembles; feels Steve's breath hot on his skin. He wants to scream. Writhe. Plant both feet on the table and arch his back so Steve is forced to fucking _touch_ him.

He doesn’t. He’s better than that. He’s a good boy.

His patience is rewarded when Steve takes Bucky’s nipple between his teeth in a none-too-gentle bite. It’s the sort of bite that’s meant to hurt, to mark. Bucky moans, left foot twitching as his leg lifts a few inches off the table and begins to shake.

“You’ve been so patient, pretty eyes,” Steve murmurs upon pulling away. “Look at those tears—I knew I’d get you there.”

Bucky makes a noise of agreement because he is slipping into the place where he stops caring. The place where the pain heightens the pleasure and all that matters is getting more of both.

“Poor, poor Bucky,” Steve hums. “I guess there’s one place we’ve _sorely_ neglected in our lessons, isn’t there, pal?” He picks up the crop and taps it against Bucky’s belly before moving it down, down, down, sliding the tip between Bucky’s cock and his stomach. Bucky moans, watching with hazy interest as Steve uses the handle of the crop to lift his prick. It’s not enough, but it’s _something_ , which is more than he’s had all fucking week.

“I think,” Steve continues. “You’re the sorta guy that could take a lot of damage down here—you’d be surprised what you can endure. But that’s something we gotta work you up to.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, oblivious to everything but the way Steve keeps rubbing the handle of the crop back and forth against his prick.

“However, there is the small matter of you agreeing to let me hit you in the balls…”

“Huh?”

“Legs up and open, just like you were before, sweetheart.”

“Hnk,” Bucky agrees, a pleasant little frisson of fear running through him as he plants his feet and lets his knees fall open.

“Good boy,” Steve says. “Honestly, I’m kinda wondering how many I should give you. That is a _real_ head-scratcher."

“Unnn.” Steve talks a lot. Bucky wishes he’d just do it.

“How about this—let’s make it part of your reward. I was originally planning on five minutes of that, but how about…every hit you take, I’ll add on another minute of the good stuff.”

Bucky squints. “Whazzuh reward?”

“Aw, it’d spoil the fun if I _told_ you. You just gotta take it on faith that you’ll like it.”

“I…” Bucky nods. “Yes.”

“So trusting,” Steve says. “Alright, here we go.”

In theory, Bucky knows that getting hit in the balls with a riding crop is going to hurt. Knows that it will be worse than getting hit on the thigh, or the ass, or the underarm. As with most things in life, theory and practice differ dramatically, and in practice? Jesus fucking _Christ_ , does it hurt. It is _awful_ , feels like someone shoved a red hot poker into his groin, and makes him sob.

But, also? It’s awesome. Makes his ass clench up around the plug, which causes said plug to rub against his prostate, which serves to set his dick twitching, the whole Rube-Goldbergian torture of it a reward in and of itself.

Alright, he gets it. Pain and pleasure. Masochism. Synapses fucking fired, brain.

“‘Nother one please,” he manages, after giving himself ample time to writhe and complain about the first.

“Suit yourself,” Steve says, raising the crop.

Four additional reward minutes are earned before things take a turn from the pleasantly terrible to just plain bad. Bucky squirms away from the fourth blow, thighs clamping shut as he turns to the side and curls in on himself. He thinks maybe he says that he’s done, but it’s hard to separate what he vocalizes from the gasping protests taking place within his head.

Steve’s careful with him. Places one hand on his flank and rubs, murmuring things like, “good boy…work you up to more…lot for the first time.” Praise like that sends Bucky back to the floaty place, especially when Steve ends a sentence with the word, “reward?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Gonna have to roll on your back again to get it,” Steve teases.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he straightens out, balls throbbing, though the pain has dulled to a remnant.

“It’s fine,” Steve says, helping him get settled. “Keep your legs flat, okay?”

“Mmm,” Bucky agrees, watching as Steve reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a phone. “Wazzat?”

“For right now, it’s a timer,” he says. “Nine minutes in total, and I’m gonna play with you the whole time, sweetheart. You can wriggle around as much as you want, rock on the plug. Hell, you don’t even have to ask for permission to come.”

Bucky frowns as Steve reaches for fresh gloves. That all sounds a little too good to be true.

“But!” Steve continues, snapping one glove into place.

Fucking there it is.

“The thing about the nine minutes? That’s all you get. But also? You’re getting all of it. So if you come early, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop playing with you.”

Shit.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve grins. “Don’t think I missed all those pitiful little noises you were making on the phone—” He demonstrates a few, and Bucky feels his cheeks heat.

“Uhh—“ he swallows. “Can I ask you to slow down?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “I mean, I’ll certainly take it under advisement.”

“Oh…”

“But that’s the other thing. If you _don’t_ come within nine minutes, then you don’t get to come at all until I see you again.”

Bucky licks his lips. “But…if I do come, I get to…do it again? Before next time?”

“If you come within the nine minutes, you can have…mmm, two orgasms between now and next time. One on your own, the other at my discretion.”

“How—?”

“I’ll text you.”

“Oh.”

“So! Nine minutes.” Bucky thinks maybe Steve needs one of those black executioner’s hoods, because he is way too happy about all of this as he uses his nose to start the timer, being as his gloved hands can’t (a gesture that is is annoyingly cute) before placing the phone where he can see it but Bucky can’t. Then, he reaches over, pumps a metric ton of lube into his gloved palm, and grins.

“Confidentially,” Steve whispers like they’re co-conspirators, hovering his hand infuriatingly close to Bucky’s dick. “I don’t think you’d have lasted the original five. So good job on making this worse for yourself, pal.”

Which is when Bucky realizes he’s been conned. Bamboozled. Played for a fool by Steve Surname-Redacted. Because this man is a goddamn professional. _This_ man has given a fair few hand jobs in his day, and when he wraps his slick fist around Bucky’s cock, Bucky understands in an instant that he is fucked. There’s no hesitation in Steve’s movements. No trepidation in his touch. There is only warmth and surety and a steady rhythm from the start.

Bucky gasps, hips jerking up from the table and into Steve's fist before settling back down where, naturally, the best butt plug on God's green earth brushes against his prostate. He curls his fists in frustration before starting to grind himself back and forth on the toy. Maybe it's hubris to think he can beat the system. That he can roll his hips against the plug while fucking Steve's fist and _not_ splooge within seconds. Surely he has better self-control than that?

He’s feeling almost confident until Steve brings his free hand to ever-so-tenderly pinch Bucky’s bitten nipple, rolling the sensitive nub between his thumb and forefinger. Bucky howls, squirming on the table that’s been made slippery by his own sweat.

Christ, he’s making a lot of noise. Grunting and panting and rutting as he sprints for the edge of the cliff he’s been dancing closer to all week. Time has gotten away from him—he’s not entirely in his head—but he thinks it can’t have been very long yet. A minute? Two? Five? It’s not fair that he doesn’t know. Not fair that Steve can see, and he can’t see, and _God_ , he’s going to come, he’s going to come right now if he doesn’t get his shit under control.

So he stops rocking. Grits his teeth and wills himself to breathe. Opens his eyes to find Steve looking at him with utter delight on his stupid, handsome face.

“Please…” Bucky pants. “Slow…”

Steve’s hand slips off Bucky’s cock completely, leaving it straining against empty air.

“Gunnnnnnnkh!” Bucky complains.

“What’s wrong?’ Steve says, the picture of innocence. “Didn’t you want me to stop?”

“Fuhhhhh!”

“Gotcha gotcha gotcha,” Steve nods, before pumping himself another handful of lube, some of which he uses to run the _lightest_ of circles around the head of Bucky’s prick with his index finger before pulling away.

It is _agony_.

Bucky loves it.

“You know, pal,” Steve says solemnly. “I’m thinking you might not make it through this little challenge—”

“Nnngh,” Bucky agrees, defeated.

“The way you were working that plug into yourself—” he shrugs, forming his lubed hand into an open fist and holding it centimeters from Bucky’s cock. “You’ll forgive a fella for thinking you _wanted_ to get off.”

“I _dooooo_!”

“Then why?” Steve asks, slipping his hand south for one quick pump, then off. “Did you ask me to slow down?”

Steve is an asshole. Bucky glowers, which only makes Steve grin and smack Bucky on the belly with his unlubed hand, jostling the plug in the process. Bucky moans at the sheer god damned indignity of it all, while Steve—a terrible person—actually _chuckles_.

“You are a _mess_ , Buck,” he says, lowering his hand and encircling Bucky’s weeping prick once more.

The sound Bucky makes when Steve starts to pump again isn’t quite human. He’s crying with abandon now, sobbing out his frustration until his nose is stuffed up and his face is wet because he just wants to _come_. Steve is efficient, at least, and it takes no time at all before Bucky once more feels the tightness in his thighs, toes starting to curl while his mouth goes slack and his eyes roll back in his head. He’s close. He’s _so_ fucking close.

“Sl-sl-pl—”

“What’s that?” Steve asks, picking up the pace of his strokes. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me, sweetheart.” His fist is a blur, and it feels so fucking fantastic that Bucky doesn’t even mind when he loses the game. Rocketing past the point of no return feels better than it ever has before, in fact, and he comes in thick spurts of white that coat Steve’s fist and his own stomach, body shuddering and heart thumping in his chest. It’s good, it’s so, so, _so_ good. It’s _everything_ , and he lets out another sob, grateful and sated and utterly undone.

The perfection lasts for all of ten seconds before Bucky arrives at the other side of his reward. The side where Steve is continuing to stroke with the same briskness, even as the high of orgasm fades and Bucky is left open, panting and exposed. Everything goes from tremendous to torturous in an instant. The plug is rubbing his hole raw. He is too hot. His body aches. Even his eyes hurt from crying.

Bucky yowls his displeasure; Steve remains unmoved. Not toward any act of mercy, at least, though after a moment, he grips the base of Bucky’s prick with one hand and starts rubbing the opposite palm against his cockhead with such vigor that it makes Bucky scream, body going rigid as he twists back and forth. There’s nowhere for him to go, though, and Steve is relentless.

Bucky begins begging, whimpering heady little pleas of, “please, please stop!” or “no more, no more!” Every moment that passes is too much for his overstimulated senses. It _hurts_. No, it's not the white heat of a spank or the sharp sting of a hairbrush, but it's a pain all the same. A burning itch below the surface that he can't scratch, and as Steve goes back to roughly jerking his shaft, Bucky begins to entertain fantasies of crawling out of his own skin. Anything to make Steve stop fucking _touching_ him.

All the same, he knows, deep down, that he can stop this. That there’s a word he can yell that will bring his anguish to an end. But fuck, he’s not going to. Because for as much as this sucks—as much agony as he’s in—Steve is _proud_ of him, with a dopey grin on his face like he can’t believe Bucky’s being so good.

Bucky _is_ good. Bucky has taken every fucking torment Steve has dished out tonight, and he’s not going to let _this_ be the thing that breaks him.

So he grits his teeth and sets his jaw, determined to ride out the remainder of the nine minutes. And, shockingly, it gets easier. Maybe part of it is that his brain has floated off into the ether, or maybe he’s just weathered the worst of the storm. Either way, it becomes bearable. Sure, he’s still twitching. Still moaning. Still crying as Steve continues to stroke his softening prick. But Bucky is tough. He can take it.

When the phone finally beeps its alarm, Bucky shudders with relief. Steve is careful, slowing over the course of a few seconds until he's holding Bucky's sore, limp prick in his palm.

“My good boy,” Steve says, pride in his voice as he pulls his hand away. Despite everything, Bucky whimpers at the loss of contact. “I know, sweetheart. I’m still here, though. You’re so good, Bucky. You’re all done. I’m really proud of you.”

Bucky smiles because he doesn't think he can talk. Steve doesn't take offense, just pulls off his gloves before resting his warm hand against Bucky's cheek. "You good to hang out for a second? I need to get something to clean you up."

A nod is all Bucky can manage, and he closes his eyes when Steve steps away, basking in the perfect nothingness of the moment. The way every inch of his body is thrumming and shivering in the afterglow. Which, yeah, he's sticky and sore, and there's still a very irritating wooden plug up his ass, but those are just details. The feeling is what matters, and this feeling is fucking addictive.

When Steve returns, Bucky cracks one eye to watch. Steve is very efficient—a couple of tissues take care of most of the jizz, and a few baby wipes manage the rest. There's something comforting about letting himself be taken care of. Knowing he doesn't need to do anything but wait, because Steve is managing everything.

“Let me know if this is too much,” Steve cautions before he begins wiping off the mess of lube and spunk on Bucky’s shaft. Which, okay, the fact that he’s so god damn concerned after what he’d just done is objectively hilarious. Bucky starts to giggle through the snot and the remnants of his tears. It’s very cool, very sexy, he’s sure. That thought makes it funnier, and he starts laughing harder before beginning to cough.

Steve rolls his eyes, reaching for a clean tissue and holding it to Bucky’s nose. “Blow,” he commands.

Bucky blows. Starts laughing again. Blows a second time. Steve takes the tissue away and tosses it onto the growing pile of them on the cart.

"Good boy," he says like it's totally normal for one grown man to remedy another grown man's snot situation.

“Thanks.”

“So he _can_ talk,” Steve teases. “How you feeling?”

“S’good.”

"Yeah, you are." He crouches down, and then he's back with a blanket, draping it over Bucky's still-shaking body. "Better?"

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna untie your arms now.”

“Uh-huh.”

Steve moves behind his head, undoing the cuffs and massaging Bucky’s wrists and arms to make sure the blood’s flowing. He works his way to Bucky’s armpit, in fact, though this time he doesn’t tickle, just kneads the muscle firmly.

“Alright,” he says when he’s through, helping Bucky lay his arms across his chest. “I didn’t mark you up too much this time, so I don’t think we need the cream.”

“Okay.”

“There’s still the matter of the plug, though—roll onto your side, ass this way, and I’ll get it out.”

“Yup.” The position is another tiny indignity that Bucky might once have been anxious about, but is now more than happy to endure. He curls up, ass to Steve, who moves the blanket only as much as is necessary.

“Alright,” he says, placing one warm hand on Bucky’s left hip. “I’ll take as much assistance as you can give me with this guy.”

Bucky knows what that means, and he does his best to be of help while Steve works the plug past his rim. He feels empty without it, and a shudder rolls down his spine before Steve covers him up again.

“Good boy,” Steve says quietly, taking a moment to arrange the blanket before pressing a kiss to Bucky’s bare shoulder. “Just relax for a while, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky closes his eyes, content to listen as Steve starts moving around. He hears the door to the back room open. Water running. Something being unzipped then zipped up again. After that, Steve comes back to the table and gets Bucky's attention by touching his cheek.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says. “Come into the back with me, huh? The couch is more comfortable.”

"M'kay." Bucky's happy to agree because he's once again in a place where he'll agree to just about anything Steve wants. Hell, if he were ordered to turn cartwheels, he'd do them just to see Steve laugh when he fell on his ass.

Steve helps him up, and once they’re in the back room, he sits down first, keeping hold of Bucky’s wrist and patting his lap. “C’mere,” he offers. Bucky takes him up on it. Crawls onto the sofa and twists himself so he’s facing Steve’s stomach rather than the room, blanket snug around his shoulders.

Steve smells good. Like detergent and soap. His pants are soft under Bucky’s cheek, too, and he nuzzles against the material with a contented sigh. It’s nice there. Warm and…spoopy. Spoopy’s the best word for this, definitely, and he mumbles it out loud before butting his head against Steve’s stomach.

“What?” Steve asks, smoothing some hair from Bucky’s temple.

“Nuthin’,” Bucky replies, wanting to be quiet for a while as he comes back to himself.

It’s only when he’s been lying there for a few minutes that he realizes Steve is hard. Immediately he feels stupid for not noticing the bulge earlier, but in his defense, he _had_ been a little out of sorts. Once he’s aware, though, he figures he ought to be doing something about that, or at least he ought to make the offer. So he shuffles closer to the long line of Steve’s erection (which, shit, it’s _big_ ) parting his lips so he can—

“No, Bucky,” Steve says, hand tightening in his hair.

“But—” Bucky scowls, a dark raincloud settling itself over his bliss.

“Don’t worry about that. You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

Bucky bites his lip, cheeks heating as he half-sits, propping himself on his left arm. “Sorry for offering,” he mutters.

Steve sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “It’s not—” he hesitates. “Sweetheart, it’s a longer conversation.”

Annoyed, Bucky shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Bucky—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he snaps, sitting up the rest of the way, the resulting rush of blood to his head making him dizzy. “Fuck…”

“Pal.” Steve reaches for him. Bucky jerks away, and for the first time since starting any of this Bucky sees a flicker of uncertainty in Steve’s eyes. Which is enough to make it okay again—that little bit of humanity. To know that Steve is as capable as Bucky of having conflicting emotions, even if he tries to hide them.

Knowing that makes Bucky bold.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

Steve inhales, and his expression shutters. “I don’t think—”

“You said on the phone,” he interrupts, because they’re not playing a game now. “That I could earn a kiss. And I fucking earned it.”

There’s a beat, and for a moment Bucky thinks he’s ruined everything. But then Steve leans in and catches him in a kiss that is remarkably chaste.

Steve’s lips are dry and rough in places, the bottom one full in a way that makes Bucky want to bite down. But this doesn’t feel like that sort of kiss, so he focuses instead on committing to memory every detail of the moment. The way the well-maintained softness of Steve’s beard contrasts with the prickly hair on his upper lip. The lingering taste of toothpaste. The way his hand cups Bucky’s cheek, thumb stroking his skin for a second before he breaks away, a half-smile on his face.

“Yeah, Buck,” he says, cheeks gone slightly pink. “You earned it.”

“I—” Bucky smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” With that, Steve’s confidence is back; the brief flicker of doubt extinguished. Bucky’s glad he asked for the kiss when he did. “How you feeling?”

“Like I could crawl into bed and sleep for a week.”

“No shit,” Steve laughs. “You took a lot. Again”

“Did I?”

“Don’t be coy, pal. You might be a natural at this.”

“Aw, shucks.”

Steve grins. “I mean it, smartass.”

Bucky grins right back, stretching one arm across his chest, hoping to stave off some of the soreness that had plagued his muscles after their last time together. “I dunno what to tell you. It’s all good. I like it, I’m happy.”

“I’m glad,” Steve says. “And hey—you earned two orgasms between now and next time.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Steve laughs, taking a moment to arrange the blanket around Bucky’s waist. “You’re not ah…you’re not bound to the extracurricular stuff, you know.”

Surprised at the clarification, Bucky shrugs. “I figured.”

“It’s just supposed to be for fun. I know you’re living your life, too. And you said you were dating.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s ears go hot. “Yeah, but not like…actively?”

“No?”

"No. But, um, if I run into a…conflict? I'll let you know?" (Which, if he's honest, is Not. Fucking. Happening. Mostly because he can't imagine any date being worth giving up the shit they just did.)

“Absolutely,” Steve nods. “That’s fair.”

“In the meantime,” he grins. “I’ll take my two orgasms.”

“Yes, you will.” Relaxing against the couch, Steve studies him closely. “To review, that’s one at your leisure—you’d better let me know when you do it, though. And the other, I’ll let _you_ know.”

“Got it.” Yawning, he switches arms. “Anything else?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Do you _want_ more?”

"I mean—" Bucky shrugs, and maybe it's just the afterglow that has him thinking he can handle anything, but he feels like he can take whatever Steve can dish out. "Yes?"

“That…” Steve looks down at his lap and smiles. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Don’t, you know, feel like you’re _obligated_ —” he amends, because Steve is a busy guy, and he probably has plenty of paying customers who need his time and attention.

“Oh, it’s not an obligation, but I’ll try to keep my expectations reasonable.” Steve pats him on the thigh before pointing to Bucky’s duffel. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll think of some stuff I can have you work on.”

Bucky nods, hopping up from the couch and discarding his blanket before heading for his bag, surprisingly okay with being stark naked in front of Steve. Which, _obviously_ , but there’s a marked difference between being naked in the middle of a scene and being naked while Steve’s chilling on a couch behind him. Especially because Steve is just sort of…watching him as he gets dressed.

“You work out, right?” Steve asks once Bucky is clad in only his sweatpants.

“Um, yeah.” He’s not religious about it, but he tries to get in a few workouts a week.

“What do you do?”

“Run, mostly.”

“Do you have a gym membership?”

“…yes.”

“Good. This gym of yours, it’s got classes?”

“Yes?”

“Yoga?”

“I guess?” He’s seen people carrying mats, so it seems likely.

“Perfect.” Steve smiles. “You’re gonna find a yoga class at a time that works for you and start going. Once a week for now, but ideally we’ll get you to two or three.”

“Um.” Bucky frowns, picking up his t-shirt. “Okay…can I ask why?”

“You can always ask why,” Steve says. “This one is because I want to start tying you up eventually, and the more flexible you are, the more fun it’ll be for us both.”

Bucky tugs his shirt into place, eyes wide. “The…okay.”

“You’re really tense, too,” Steve continues. “Especially in your back and shoulders. The yoga will help with that, and I’m gonna send you to my masseuse, like I said.”

“I don’t—”

“Is that a no-I-don’t-want-to, or no-it’s-a-limit?”

Bucky smiles and reaches for his hoodie. “It’s a no-I-don’t-want-to.”

“Why?”

“Just…feels indulgent, I guess?”

“Poor baby,” Steve teases. “I’m making it a requirement. At least once a month. The woman I’m sending you to is kink friendly, and takes payment on a sliding scale.”

“I…yeah, alright,” he relents, because who says no to mandated massage therapy, even if it does feel indulgent.

“And…” Steve squints at him. “One more question: do you sit at a computer all day?”

What the actual fuck. “Yes?”

“Your posture sucks.”

“Hey!”

“It does!” Steve laughs. “You hunch over when you walk, and you slump when you sit. No wonder your back’s so fucked.”

“That’s not…” Bucky frowns. He has no defense. “Damn it.”

“That’s where I kinda run out of ideas, though. I don’t know how I’m supposed to check that you’re sitting up straight.” He pauses, a grin on his face. “Unless you want me to go to work with you and stand over your desk with a paddle.”

The mental image makes Bucky snort as he zips up his hoodie. “My boss might find that troubling, yeah.”

“So I gotta—hmm, that one I’m going to need to think about. Add something to your list next time.”

“I’m starting to regret asking for homework.”

“I told you: playing with fire. But…” he shrugs. “It’s for your own good.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, you know, _my_ own good,” Steve says as he gets to his feet and walks toward Bucky. “The shit we do here, it’s super physical. You can see that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” he continues, leaning against the counter while Bucky starts putting on his shoes. “It’s easier for me when you’re in shape—flexible, strong, someone I can put through their paces without having to worry about hurting in a not-fun way.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Surely not everyone you play with is in like…peak physical condition.”

“No, of course not,” he agrees. “And I don’t expect it—that’d be insane. But you? You’re my business partner. Being able to handle what I give you is _very_ much in your job description.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Speaking of your job, I’m gonna need you to write me a couple hundred words about how that plug felt in your ass.”

Bucky, who had been in the process of tying his shoe, snaps his head up. “What?!”

“I’m sorry, was I _not_ clear on the terms of our arrangement?” Steve says with such a shit eating grin on his face that it makes Bucky laugh. “Two hundred words, minimum. SEO friendly. Emailed to me within a week.”

“Ess-eeh-oh _what_?”

Steve takes him by the shoulders and stands him upright before pressing an incredibly condescending (and, honestly, kind of funny) kiss to his forehead. “Google it,” he whispers solemnly.

“You suck.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees. “But I can’t sell a butt-plug from a dom’s perspective.”

“You said you used it on yours—”

“Shh, shh, shh…” Steve chides, placing his index finger against Bucky’s lips. “It has been a _pleasure_ doing business with you, Mr. Barnes. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

He writes Steve three hundred words by the following Thursday anyway.

He is rewarded with an orgasm.

Business is good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> These keep getting longer and longer, don't they? The horror, the horror. I'm tentatively working on a fourth.
> 
> Thanks to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) for her top-notch beta work, and to [Lena](https://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com) and [Alby](https://twitter.com/albymangroves) for their enabling. Also thanks to everyone on Twitter who has been yelling about this 'verse. You are all filthy and I love you. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


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